


At Odds

by lilacSkye



Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Grimsley gets wasted a lot, Grimsley tries so hard to look cool but he's just a dork, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda, M/M, Marshal is too pure, Mutual Pining, Nothing too explicit, Probably ooc, but Alder is a Cool Dad and takes care of that, idk what else to tag?, mentions of internalized homophobia, rarepair, wager addiction, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacSkye/pseuds/lilacSkye
Summary: A small ficlet collection focused around the relationship between Grimsley and Marshal. Written as stress relief and to try my hand at new characters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame reading Pokemon Special (or Pokemon Adventures, whichever name floats your boat) BW arc and Kusaka's super good characterizations. I ended up loving some characters that I never thought possible (Caitlin is amazing in the manga. In the game too, but I have terrible memories of her accursed Musharna that made me bitter about her). Aaaaand of course I ended up low-key shipping Grimsley/Marshal. I don't know why, I just know their characters would complement each other perfectly.  
>  ~~also, Grimsley in Sun and Moon is hilarious, lmao~~  
>  Hope you enjoy!  
>   
> Please forgive eventual mistakes I didn't notice. I'm not an English native speaker and my grammar might not be top tier sometimes. Constructive critisism is always welcome!

The crowd is insufferably loud.  
  
Quivering laughs and drunken hollers, when the white ball stops spinning or the cards are thrown down, are everything Marshal can hear over the jazz background music, and it's getting on his nerves. This is definitely not his place.  
  
Marshal is a fighter, and as such he has a moral code to uphold to. He is used to deprive himself of comforts and camp on a frozen mountain to train and meditate, shunning away the vile materiality that apparently plagues the big cities of Unova.  
  
And now he was in the heart of it.  
  
He loathes the stench of alcohol that has been assaulting his nostrils ever since he stepped foot into Nimbasa City's casino just as much as he hates seeing the inebriated patrons wasting their lives over a bi-colored spinning wheel and cards that are most likely rigged. Such foolishness makes his blood boil in his veins. And yet he can't leave.  
  
Marshal is a fighter, and he takes pride in what he does. And he couldn't possibly let down his master Alder, when he so kindly asked him to fetch someone for him, now, could he? It was obvious that he could not possibly ask to either Shauntal or – Arceus forbid – Caitlin, thus leaving Marshal the only one up to the task.  
  
_“Atta boy, Marsh! I knew I could count on ya!”_ Alder beamed at him when Marshal begrudgingly accepted the ungrateful task, slapping a hand on Marshal shoulder quite heavily. Not enough to push him out of balance, but enough that Marshal felt the stinging burn on his skin for a long while after that.  
  
Somehow, he is feeling on fire now as well, although for very different reason.  
  
He finally spots his objective, a dark clothed figure sitting languidly at one of the most crowded roulette tables, an almost empty flute glass in one hand while the other is busy steadying a very intoxicated woman sitting on his lap. For some reason, Marshal can't help but notice the less than appropriate dress the woman is wearing, nor how her busty chest is heavily pressed against Grimsley's.  
  
He grits hit teeth in rage and disgust. The sight of Grimsley, visibly drunk, betting all of his chips on the red seven among the lascivious cheers of the woman he is holding and the crowd is enough to make Marshal lose it. Like a raging Bouffalant focused on its target and unable to see anything else, he pushes and shoves through the crowd, not caring about the nonsensical complains of the patrons on his way. They're so wasted that they probably won't even remembered being ushered out of the way in around five minutes.  
  
He doesn't take long to reach Grimsley. He positively towers over him, immediately behind his chair.  
  
“Ehi.”  
  
The woman looks up when she hears Marshal's low, rumbling call, and almost topples over with a shrill scream when she sees him standing right there. She struggles herself free from Grimsley's grasp and scrambles away, readjusting haphazardly her dress, not without tripping over her own feet a few times. Marshal doesn't spare her a glance, though: his eyes are firmly focused on the back of Grimsley's head. He is positive Grimsley is aware of Marshal's presence, but doesn't acknowledge him, most likely enjoying driving Marshal up the wall. Marshal grasps tightly on his shoulder – he's so thin, too thin – and forces him to turn to face him. To his credit, Grimsley barely flinches; on the contrary, his ever present sardonic grin seems to widen when his eyes finally land on Marshal.  
  
“My, hello there, sweetheart. Somehow I knew you would show up.” Grimsley all but _purrs_ softly, the languidness of his voice enhanced by his tipsy state. Marshal suddenly feels like his hand, still grasping tightly on Grimsley's collarbone, is bursting on fire, and he is quick to retreat it, scowling as hard as he can to keep at bay the blush that threatens to ignite his face.  
  
“There are challengers scheduled for tomorrow morning.” Marshal grumbles through clenched teeth, wishing nothing more to wipe that knowing smirk off Grimsley's face. “Get out of this... place.”  
  
He tries to pour every ounce of the disdain he holds for this kind of facilities, but it flies way over Grimsley's head – also because the croupier chooses that exact moment to rack in Grimsley's chips. Grimsley scoffs, vaguely irritated, but then stands up.  
  
“Apparently I need a babysitter to sweep me away and tuck me into bed, don't I? Allow me to pay up, and I'll be yours for the rest of the night.”  
  
And he _winks_ at Marshal as he elegantly glides past him. He stinks of alcohol – just how much did he drink? - and yet he barely stumbles on his way to the counter. Feeling too hot despite his sleeveless outfit, Marshal has to get out of this place, and fast.  
  
Grimsley catches up to him in a few minutes as he waits while leaning against the wall, still grinning like a Liepard in front of an easy prey to pounce on. His steps are uncannily firm despite his intoxication, and the golden scarf around his neck billows slightly in the chill night breeze.  
  
“So? The usual hotel room?”  
  
Marshal nods. He doesn't have a flying type of his own, since Shauntal is the one who usually lends him her Drifblim or Golurk, but this time she needed them, and Grimsley's own Mandibuzz wouldn't be able to carry both of them at the same time. That, and he doesn't think Grimsley, as well as he is at being drunk apparently, would take a trip on a flying pokèmon's back just as positively.  
  
They walk in silence for a while, enjoying the breeze blowing on their face. Grimsley's tense smirk tells Marshal that the first signs of a massive hangover are about to settle in. Luckily enough, they reach the designated place. The assistant behind the counter is so used to see the both of them appear out of the blue that she doesn't even follows the proper check-in routines. She simply smiles and hands them – Grimsley – the key to the room, thoroughly enjoying the flirtatious praises Grimsley lets slip past his lips, whispered in her ear as if they were some forbidden secret. As they take their leave, the girl is still blushing and giggling madly.  
  
The elevators doors open up with a soft ding and in a breath they reach their usual room on the third floor. As usual, finally away from prying eyes and the heavy sense of duty that accompanies the title of Elite Four (not that Grimsley cares about that, the more they tell him to do something, the more he rebels against it. But Marshal does care.) this is the moment Marshal finally breaks.  
  
“I don't understand.”  
  
Grimsley rolls his eyes, but his grin widens. Marshal is sure the man bet on the eventuality Marshal brought up the topic _yet again_. Still, that does nothing to deter Marshal, because no matter how many times he is appointed to pick up Grimsley at the casino before he got in some serious trouble, he still doesn't get it. He knows Grimsley, he's seen him in action, and he's sly and coy and brilliant, and Marshal finds it unbearable, because at the same time he is forced to see the man wasting himself away for another round at the roulette table and end up in the arms of a stranger for the night to make up his debts when his money wasn't enough.  
  
He hates it.  
  
“I'm not expecting you to.” Grimsley replies calmly, knowing already where Marshal is driving at. “How could you, honorable and ascetic martial arts student, grasp the depth of vice and sins I happily dwell in? Isn't that what you want to say?”  
  
His words are slightly slurred, but perfectly understandable. Marshal doesn't know if Grimsley is doing it on purpose or not, but he chooses that moment to fumble with his scarf, exposing part of his neck, long and pale as a Swanna, and Marshal can better see the several red marks dotting the otherwise flawless skin, bite marks sinking into pale flesh. Marshal feels like the ground has been swept from under his feet by a Low Kick, and abruptly stops. He doesn't realize he's shivering, and it's not from the cold.  
  
On the contrary, Grimsley simply smirks and turns, closing the small distance between them in a few strides.  
  
(Marshal can't help but notice those damned, thin hips swaying, and he knows Grimsley is purposely teasing him, and he really shouldn't let it get to him like this–)  
  
“One day,” Grimsley is so close now that Marshal can feel the man's hot breath on his lips, and it's suddenly too close and too warm, even though he can't pull away, entranced by the scent of alcohol and Grimsley and the cheap cologne that he favors so much and that usually makes Marshal want to gag. “One day I'll manage to make you understand how pleasant give in to temptation can actually be.”  
  
It's a challenge, and Grimsley is playing with fire for the sake of the excitement it comes with. Grimsley's hand reaches out to Marshal, cups his cheek – his nails dug in ever so slightly, and Marshal has to bite back a pleased hiss at the enticing jolt of pain that courses through him and makes his blood race to the lower half of his body – and trails down, kneading at firm muscles and dark exposed skin, down through his chest and abdomen until his index finger reaches the hem of Marshal's pants, and hooks around them.  
  
Marshal finally manages to grab him by the collar of his shirt and shoves him away, panting and blushing and somewhat wishing he let that talented hand keep at what it's doing, but his honor is too important to let it be sullied by the irrational desires of his flaming body. He will never give up on his pride as a fighter, and it will take more than these cheap tactics to make his steadfast resolution crumble.  
  
“Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Grimsley.” Marshal all but growls, not liking the slight quiver of his voice and hoping Grimsley hasn't picked up on it. Grimsley's nerve-grating grin begs to differ. “I refuse to be part of this little bet of yours.”  
  
“Oh? How amusing, I was under the impression you were fully enjoying my ministrations. Was I wrong, by chance?”  
  
He's not wrong. Marshal has long accepted his attraction to other males, after struggling to keep control of it for so long. It was Alder the one who taught him that it was fine, that love goes beyond social constructs, that love is always, always a gift.  
  
But that's it. Love is a gift, indeed. Not this sick, perverse kind of game Grimsley was trying to pull him in. Twisted perversion and temptation that are based on pure lust and lead to nothing but disasters.  
  
Annoyance flashes through Grimsley's eyes at his denial. For a second Marshal thinks they're going to finally break into a fight, but he remembers Grimsley is probably under the effect of the many glasses of wine he gulped down into that accursed game corner, and this must be the wine speaking. He should really let go, and stop staring at those beautiful lips.  
  
“Go to sleep. I'll see you at the League tomorrow morning.” he all but lifts Grimsley – thin and too light, is the man even saving some money to eat decently? Or all he cares about is sex, drinks and bets? – and throws him on the plush bed, earning a tiny grunt in response. The sudden movement must have confused the tipsy man, because he struggles to sit up straight.  
  
“Wait-”  
  
But Marshal is already out of the door, slamming it heavily behind him, and doesn't see Grimsley bite his lips and punch the bed, hissing curses under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimsley throws away all subtlety and confronts Marshal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda had a blast with this one. I had a lot of fun, which is probably why the characterization might be less than ideal, lol XD

Saying that Grimsley is fuming would be a massive understatement.  
  
He would never lower himself to screaming and throw stuff across the room, no, his aristocratic upbringing - as much as he loathes everything connected to his family even through mere association - would never allow him to do so. Nevertheless, he doesn't bother to hide the scowl on his face as he quickly makes his way down the red carpeted slope and steps into the League's hall.  
  
There are several trainers waiting there, looking excited and worn out from the long time spent in the torturous Victory Road. Several of them gasp when they see him, some with fear in their eyes, others with admiration, but if it is true that normally he would have gladly stopped and chatted with a few of them - there are a couple of veterans and a dancer that indeed he finds fascinating - today he simply nods stiffly and briskly walks past them.  
  
He hears a few muffled questions - where the heck is he going? - but they go ignored.  
  
Grimsley does not consider himself particularly hot-tempered. He prides himself on being able to keep his cool and not get too worked up even when he loses - be it at poker or pokemon, doesn't matter - but _this_... This is unacceptable.  
  
It's unacceptable because Marshal is obviously avoiding him, but most of all he's doing so on the challenging season's opening day. Marshal would _never_ miss out a battle.  
  
He grits his teeth and forces himself to calm down as he calls forth Mandibuzz from her ball, which salutes him with a happy squeak. He smiles and delicately scratches her head.  
  
"Come on, princess, we have an idiot to bring back home."  
  
  
\--  
  
  
The trip to Twist Mountain is not exactly comfortable but it's fast and Grimsley doesn't complain. He pats Mandibuzz' head when they land on the snowy ground and offers her a few of her favorite berries as an apology gift before sending her back to her ball. Alright, now it was time to actually find the dunce in the awful and rather chilly maze of tunnels that runs across the mountain.  
  
"At least I have the decency to pick easily accessible places when you have to bring me back, jerk." He mutters to himself, his words condensing into a pearly white fog that the biting wind promptly scatters. He shivers and curses himself for not bringing a coat with him. "Asshole."  
  
With rapidly numbing fingers he picks up another ball and Liepard comes out in a white flash. She shivers as well as soon as the cold breeze hits and ruffles her fur, glaring at her trainer for daring to bring her out in this conditions. He shrugs and raises his hands.  
  
"Sweetie, please, I need you to track down Marshal in this hellhole. You know my sense of direction is not exactly flawless."  
  
Liepard's glower softens at the implied flattery, though she still looks at him harshly, as if wondering if he thinks she is a Houndoom or something. Still, she starts walking, slow and attentive, trying to pick up sounds that escape Grimsley's hearing.  
  
It takes them a two good hours to finally arrive to a tiny cave, empty if not for a bulky man in too light clothes for the temperature, his Mienshao at his side, and the rubble at their feet, undeniable proof of a night spent crushing boulders with their bare hands. Grimsley doesn't know if he should be pissed or find it adorable.  
  
He must have been staring at Marshal's well toned body as the man gets ready to smash yet another rock, because Liepard's long tail suddenly whips his leg, causing him to jump and hiss in pain, and when he looks down the pokemon is staring right back at him, looking pretty disgruntled. It's clear she wants to be out of here and back into the warmth of the Dark type Elite Four chamber as soon as possible. Geez, he really spoiled her.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Marshal - how ironic - freezes when he hears Grimsley's voice calling out and eerily echoing throughout the cave. Mienshao turns to identify the source of the noise, confused, and hisses when it catches sight of Liepard at Grimsley's side. Liepard returns the favor, her tail now standing tall and eerily still.  
  
Marshal still won't face him, though, and Grimsley's irritation flares. He has walked through freezing corridors for hours for this idiot, he surely at least deserves to be acknowledged, doesn't it?  
  
So he waits, arms crossed in a way that he hopes looks cool rather than a meager attempt to retain as much body heat as he can. And Marshal is even in his usual sleeveless shirt. The mere sight of that flimsy piece of clothing is enough to give Grimsley chicken skin, even though he doesn't know if it's from the cold or from the sight of Marshal's muscolar arms rippling slightly as the man clenched and unclenched his fists at his side.  
  
Finally, Marshal decides to finally turn and face him. He looks angry - but he always does, after all - but for some reason he doesn't stare right at Grimsley, as he normally would, but to a spot just above his left shoulder.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here, Grimsley?"  
  
"How curious, thought I'd be the one asking you that question." Grimsley laughs and shrugs, vaguely gesturing at the rock walls around them. "You really chose a nice place to yourself. Cozy, comfy, no wonder you have so much company around here."  
  
The way Marshal's scowl deepens to the point his eyes are reduced to thin slits only serves to fan Grimsley's amusement. Marshal has never taken too well sarcasm.  
  
"I am training," he says with that deep, rumbling voice of his. "I don't appreciate being disturbed when I train."  
  
"Well, that's totally something I can get behind, really," Grimsley replies nonchalantly, slowly closing the distance between them. Marshal stiffens when Grimsley lays a hand on his shoulder, but doesn't pull away, although the glare he sends to Grimsley would be enough to make a lesser man say 'to hell with this' and run away. Unfortunately - for Marshal - Grimsley is no lesser man, and has a penchant for impossible battles. Mienshao hisses at him, but Liepard growls at the other pokemon in warning. Grimsley doesn't mind. "However, you seem to forget one tiny detail, and as the marvelous friend I am, I wished to remind you. You are indeed a very lucky man to have such an incredible, amazing individual watching your back, you know?"  
  
If looks could kill, Grimsley would have been killed three times already, maybe four. Not that it's gonna do anything to deter him, of course.  
  
"Sure you are."  
  
"I know. Not everyone would travel across the region and almost freeze to death to tell you that you've missed the season's opening ceremony, after all."  
  
Grimsley's voice loses the playful edge as he lets the words sink in. His hand drops and he takes a step back, watching as Marshal's eyes widen in rage and then shock and then dismay. Mienshao senses the abrupt change of mood and meowls weakly, rubbing its nose against Marshal's hand.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Yep," Grimsley deadpans, earning himself another angry hiss from the fighting type pokemon.  
  
"I forgot. Entirely forgot. Alder must be so disappointed."  
  
Grimsley almost feels sorry for the huge young man, so strong and yet kind. The idea of letting his beloved master down is clearly crushing his soul.  
  
"Actually, I think he's only worried. You didn't give any warning and his fatherly senses started tingling."  
  
Marshal huffs. "I've been here all night. I needed time to... think."  
  
Grimsley doesn't miss the way Marshal's gaze flickers back to him, agony and desire etched in his tight lips and furrowed brow, only to leave and land on a rock to the side a moment later. In response, Grimsley distinctly feels a violent chill run down his spine that he's not sure he can chalk up to the cold alone.  
  
He finds that he likes it. And when Grimsley wants more of something, he always puts everything he has at stake. The thrill of the game, of winning or losing everything, suddenly makes his blood pump faster.  
  
He knows where Marshal is going with this. Hell, he wants it. Been wanting that for a long time, actually, but the lack of response to his several, barely hidden attempts at flirting has been dampening his mood. And low mood means time to pay a visit to the old friends of the Game Corner in Grimsley's book.  
  
Who knew that would be the key to solve this impasse.  
  
"May I know what for?" He inquires, but the look of intense, raw desire he receives in return - as fleeting as it is - is enough of an answer for him.  
  
"No." Marshal grumbles and blushes, and Grimsley has to summon all his self control not to grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him once for all. He can't be that cute, it's not fair. "It's not your business."  
  
"Really..." Grimsley rolls the word on his tongue as Marshal sidesteps him and tries to get away, calling back the snarling Mienshao to its ball. Before the martial artist can successfully escape from the cave, though, Grimsley manages to grab his arm and force him to stop. "Are you sure it doesn't relate to your boner of last night?"  
  
When Marshal's eyes fly wide open, half outraged and half mortified, he knows he's won. Time to deal the last blow, so he says, with the lewdest voice he can manage while standing in a freezing cavern on the tallest mountain of the region, in the middle of one of the coldest winters they've had in years: "I wouldn't have minded to take care of you, you know?"  
  
Marshal's face is so flushed that Grimsley can feel the heat radiating from him, which is not a good thing, because it only makes him want to cuddle up against the larger man even more acutely. Despite what his complexion might suggest, Grimsley is not really a fan of cold places.  
  
Marshal snarls and struggles himself free. "You don't even know what you're talking about. You were drunk beyond belief." He hisses as venomously as Marshal - proud, honorable, boisterous Marshal - can possibly be. Which is to say, not enough. Grimsley commends the attempt, though.  
  
"Oh?" He replies, arching an eyebrow. "I do remember you bringing me back to a hotel room and flinging me onto the bed. How cruel of you, getting my hopes high and then run away on me like that."  
  
Marshal gapes at him, trembling. "I... I would never... I'm not _you_ "  
  
He spits that last word with so much poison that even Grimsley has to take a step back. As his own rage starts to mount, he growls through clenched teeth: "And what exactly is that supposed to mean, if I may ask?"  
  
The other man keeps glancing around, looking everywhere but at him and now it's really getting on his nerves.  
  
"I have an honor to uphold," Marshal says, "I don't want to just sleep around without it having any meaning."  
  
"Who says it doesn't have one?"  
  
The question seems to catch Marshal off guard. Grimsley inwardly wonders why Arceus decided to make Marshal such a dense, obtuse being that wouldn't recognize a romantic advance if it danced naked it front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted and barely holding back a laughter.  
  
"I can't believe you didn't notice... I went as far as getting drunk to make it even more obvious..."  
  
"You were flirting to get laid for the night, Grimsley, I noticed."  
  
"Figures you would notice _that_ , of all things. Let's play a game, shall we? Oh, nothing too hard." He adds when he catches sight of Marshal's less than veiled disgusted face. He nods at Liepard - who has been making herself comfortable on the side the whole time, curled on herself on the rocky floor - and she raises to her feet, stretching visibly and reaching him in a few, elegant leaps. "Just a battle. You win, I'll give you a piece of information you might appreciate. I win, you share info I might want. How does it sound?"  
  
Marshal hesitates visibly, obviously not comfortable with the idea of betting something with Grimsley, which honestly leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, because he may be an unlucky sap but he likes playing fair and square.  
  
As long as others do, that is.  
  
"I suppose I managed to screw up the League's opening in any case." Marshal slowly speaks up, shame and self-deprecation obvious in his uncharacteristically hunched posture. "The least I can do to repent is to hone my skills so I can offer to any future trainer the best battle I can!"  
  
There are a number of reasons Grimsley deems Marshal kicking his ass in a battle for repentance a bit unfair to himself, but seeing as it seemed to help the other young man to snap out of this stupid meditation thing, he keeps quiet about it. Never let it be said that Grimsley can't take a hit for the team.  
  
"Alright then," he grabs a ball from his jacket pocket, as Marshal walks away to the other side of the new makeshift arena and does the same. "Let's begin."  
  
\--  
  
The battle is intense. Despite Marshal's pokemon having the upper hand in terms of type compatibility, Grimsley has enough skill as a trainer to be able to work around that with relative ease.  
  
That's how they end up with both their last pokemon locked together in a deadly fight. Liepard's high agility managed to keep at bay the powerful attacks of Mienshao, but Grimsley can see she's starting to get worn out from all that running in such a cold environment. Mienshao, slower but with more stamina, is tired as well, having taken recoil damage from a couple of missed High Jump Kicks. As it stands now, they're both at their limit, and one hit would be enough to knock out either one.  
  
The two trainers give out their orders at the same time.  
  
"Aerial Ace!"  
  
"Focus Blast!"  
  
As the two felines charge at one another, a cloud of dust engulfs them when their attacks collide. The two trainers stand there, waiting with bated breath for the fog of rubble to disperse, and when it does Liepard is lying on her side, out of energy, as Mienshao hovers above her for more or less a second before it too collapses on the ground.  
  
Grimsley shrugs and grins, walking up to Liepard and gently calling her back to her ball, but not after waking her up and petting her head, which she graciously accepts. Poor Liepard, always there to deal with Grimsley's shit.  
  
He pretends he doesn't notice Marshal's focused stare.  
  
"Well, a promise is a promise. Feeling better now?" Grimsley says loudly, getting back on his feet. He tries to dust away the wet patches on the knees of his pants, obviously to no avail.  
  
Marshal recalls Mienshao as well, apparently lost in his thoughts. Silence hangs heavy between them, and Grimsley starts wondering if the other's brain has frozen when Marshal finally emerges from his trance.  
  
"You're an amazing trainer." He states, taking Grimsley quite by surprise: of all things he was expecting him to say, praise was the last one on the list.  
  
"Why, thank you, I guess? Same to you."  
  
Marshal stares intently at the ball in his hand, most likely racking his brain for the best way to put his thoughts - whatever those thoughts are - into words.  
  
"You should stop visiting the Game Corner. You can do much more with those abilities of yours."  
  
There's a beat of silence, in which Marshal's words sink in, reverberating through the walls of stone surrounding them. Then a snicker breaks the spell, and soon enough Grimsley is clutching at his stomach, breathless with laughter.  
  
Marshal, poor, soft Marshal, grimaces and flushes a deep red, trying to escape for good from this embarrassment fest the day has turned into, but again Grimsley stops him with a trembling hand barely clutching to his shirt.  
  
"Oh for the dragons' sake, Marshal-" Grimsley has to struggle to catch his breath and wipes away the tears that have formed in his eyes. "You're so dense. Only you could be able to say such a cheesy thing and not realize I've been trying to catch your attention for years as of now."  
  
"What?" Marshal sputters, utterly clueless, which honestly only fuels Grimsley's uncontrollable fit of hilarity. He looks so cute when he's confused.  
  
"I like you, Marsh. Have for quite a long time, to tell you the truth."  
  
He doesn't even remember when it started, to be honest; it might have been the first time they met, when they both were appointed at Elite Four and cordially detested each other, or maybe when they partecipated in a doubles tournament and found out they worked together exceptionally well.  
He doesn't know anymore; he just knows that this is suddenly the greatest bet of his life and one he surely isn't allowing himself to lose.  
  
Marshal is quiet, too quiet when he should have been freaking out according to Grimsley's predictions. "Impossible."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I saw you yesterday, with those two... ladies," the distaste in his voice is crystal clear, and Grimsley's ready to bet he sees a flash of jealousy glinting in the other man's eyes. "It's impossible."  
  
Grimsley rolls his eyes. "You are the one impossible here. I don't even know their name, and neither do they know mine."  
  
Marshal doesn't look too convinced, so Grimsley decides to just play his trump card already. "Listen, how about we leave this place and go discuss this matter over dinner? I came out here in a hurry without picking a coat, and now I'm kinda freezing."  
  
"Are... you asking me out to a date?"  
  
"Well, duh!" Grimsley exclaims, purposely exaggerating his frustration. "I heard that there's a really nice noodle shop in Icirrus City."  
  
He waits for Marshal to answer, heart pounding heavily in his throat like it hasn't in a long time. He's almost sure the man is enjoying leaving him hanging like that, the bastard.  
  
After what feels like an eternity, Marshal sighs.  
  
"Fine. I'll trust you on this one."  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Later on, Grimsley's X-receiver buzzes annoyingly in his pocket. He excuses himself and opens it, only to find a message from Shauntaul.  
  
" _You owe me 1300 bucks._ "  
  
Grimsley snickers and places it back into his pocket as he explains to Marshal someone must have got the wrong number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liepard is Grimsley's best friend and is so effing done with his shit XD also, it didn't make it to the fic - for now - but Marshal has a Braviary. Aside from the obvious parallelism with Grimsley ~~why the heck doesn't Grim have a Mandibuzz in game, what the hell~~ it just felt the closest thing to a flying/fighting type that wasn't Hawlucha.  
>   
>  let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad smut without it being too graphic ahead. Written in an hour as an exercise and a way to ease my coward self to this kind of thing. I know, it's bad XD hopefully the next chapters will be better, I've been anticipating them for a while. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

Grimsley has always made a point to enjoy life at its fullest, at any given time. He considers himself an artist, the last inheritor of the bohèmien Kalosian spirit. Burgh might actually be the best at drawing, but it's just a matter of perspective: for Grimsley, everything in life could turn into a piece of art, and everything deserved to be tried and savored as a whole.

Marshal suddenly slamming him against a wall is indeed a quite interesting show to watch, if he has to honest, one that suddenly has his heart pick its rhythm up and his blood flush his cheeks. He grins at the taller, intoxicated man towering above him, whose large hands are tightly wrapped around Grimsley's slim waist and effortlessly pin him to the solid wall behind him. His back hurts from the force of the slam, but every ripple of pulsing pain is sweet and suddenly he's craving for more.

He likes where this is going. He likes the snarl of Marshal's lips as he stares down at Grimsley, focused in that drunken way that is so adorable and weirdly hot, like a predator that knows he's won. It's been a long time he's been so excited.

Given, it's not what he was expecting when he asked Marshal out for drinks. He was filled with only the purest intentions, and he could swear that to Alder. Just a few drinks between friends-not-friends-who knows to chat a little and start over. He didn't know Marshal would be such a lightweight that, after just a few beers, he needed to drag him back to the usual hotel room that he managed to book on the fly thanks to a little bit of charm and convincing.

Not that he's complaining.

"I-" Marshal starts, his grip on Grimsley tightening so much that Grimsley feels his fingertips digging through his jacket and skin, and he barely manages to hold back a moan as his blood speeds up in a straight line downward. "I got-gotcha."

"Yes, you did." Grimsley winks, "What are you going to do about it?"

He can't help it, really. There's something extremely enticing and hot about Marhsal, always so uptight and morally correct, being finally disinhibited and loose, and he wants to see more, to feel more, to claim it as his own creation. He rolls his hips against Marshal's and groans when their clothed, straining lenghts brush against each other. Glad to know he's not the only one, at least.

Marshal grits his teeth and jerks at the contact, flushing even harder than before, and Grimsley is tempted to lift himself to his toes to kiss him, lead him towards new peaks of pleasure that they could explore together. But before he can do anything about it, he is forcefully lifted from the ground and gracelessly thrown onto the bed.

When Marshal climbs up and settles himself above him, his big hands firmly planted at each side of Grimsley's head, Grimsley thinks he's awaken a dormient beast, and tomorrow morning he's going to pay the consequences.

Somehow, the thought does nothing but make him grow even harder and impatient.

Marshal's lips crash against his own, hot and selfish and demanding; Grimsley has to struggle to keep up and breathe, all the while getting more and more lightheaded as the heady scent of Marshal fills his nostrils and numbs his head, and he almost misses the way the other man's hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, almost tearing it apart in the process. Since he hasn't thought ahead enough to bring a change of clothes with him, Grimsley joins his quest and makes quick work of his own clothes and Marshal's own.

Marshal has an amazing build, that he has always known. His dark skin, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, is flawless and does nothing to hide the shift of toned muscles behind it. But as soon as his ridiculously baggy pants finally slide off and reveal bulky legs and sturdy hips, Grimsley's breath hitches in his throat, overwhelmed and excited beyond belief.

So he hooks a thin arm around Marshal's neck and pulls him down.

"Come on, hurry up." he whispers into his ear, not even trying to hide the pleading note in his last two words.

And everything escalates from there. In their heated need, all unnecessary foreplay and teasing was foregone entirely as they held on to each other for dear life, giving in to primal, graceless, powerful desire and nothing else. The bed's old springs scream just as loud as Grimsley with each of Marshal's powerful thrusts, so hard that they make Grimsley arch off the mattress and beg for more.

It's painful and good and thrilling, he feels more alive that he's been for months, years, consuming his life in monotone battles and wagers and faceless people sharing an unknown bed with him, and he wants more. And more and more and more.

Marshal climaxes first with a loud grunt and a last thrust that Grimsley is sure it might have broken something, but he doesn't care in the least as he follows suit, and only selfishly wishes he didn't give Marshal that lubricated condom he luckily found buried into his jacket's pocket. But safety is important, and even Grimsley isn't willing to bet on that, so it's a fair price to pay.

It takes a while for the world to come back into focus as Grimsley lies spread-eagled on his back, his breath heavy and ragged, and Marshal slides to the side, apparently exhausted.

"Didn't know-" he has to take a break to catch his breath and properly formulate his words. "You had that in you, big boy."

Marshal's eyes are glazed when he stares at Grimsley, as though he doesn't understand what he's saying at all, and maybe that's exactly the case. He looks like a confused puppy, and this time Grimsley can't hold back: he leans down and presses a kiss to his lips, sweet and slow. Marshal makes a sound terribly similar to a purr and responds, moving his lips against Grimsley's clumsily and sloppily.

"I said it once, and I'll say it again, you're too cute."

Marshal grunts, but his eyes don't open, and it's clear that this time sleep is going to win. Grimsley grins and somehow manages to pull his bulky frame beneath the covers beside him, not without a few curses hissed under his breath when it came down to actually move his burly body around so that they could fit - albeit a bit tightly, but he supposes it's not really a problem by now - together on the tiny mattress.

He's more than a little surprised when an arm as thick as a tiny log wraps around his shoulder and presses him tightly against Marshal's chest.

"You... too. Cute. I..."

Grimsley feels an acute pain as his heart constricts tight, so tight, and he waits for the other man to continue, but soon enough he hears a loud snore and the magic spell is broken. He smirks and snuggles closer to his chest.

Oh well, just an excuse to do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be irregular. The singular chapters are connected, but not too tightly, they can be read as standalones. Eventual warnings will be put in the tags and in the notes above each chapter


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